


I'm Hearing Secret Harmonies

by DiminishingReturns



Series: The Home On My Back [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Picnics, Poetry, Post-Canon, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Stars, The Bentley is a troll but a troll with Crowley's interests in mind, really just so much fluff, smell memory, the happy ending they deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-05 21:28:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20280100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiminishingReturns/pseuds/DiminishingReturns
Summary: An epilogue to Noisome Breath.The story of how Aziraphale and Crowley end up in a cottage in the South Downs after the world doesn't end. Crowley still asks too many questions, but he's learning to be at peace with not having all the answers - some questions are just about the joy of asking.





	I'm Hearing Secret Harmonies

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe someday I'll try my hand at some pining or angst or smut or any other trope that lends itself so well to six thousand years of tension. Today is not that day, friends. What my heart needs right now is softness and love and undiluted, tooth-aching fluff, so that's what my heart has created.

_“When did it happen?_  
_ ‘It was a long time ago.’_

  
_ Where did it happen?_  
_ ‘It was far away.’_

  
_ No, tell. Where did it happen?_  
_ ‘In my heart.’_

  
_ What is your heart doing now?_  
_ ‘Remembering. Remembering!’”_

-Mary Oliver, _When Did It Happen?_

**The South Downs, 2032**

Crowley crouches in the garden, dirt clinging to his fingers and staining his knees, and frowns at the spring onions. “We’ve talked about this,” he grumbles at them. “I _ will _replace you with garlic if you don’t start growing better.” The onions give an unimpressed rustle. “Lettuce, then!” Crowley hisses. 

There is a mostly well-behaved vegetable patch here, under the kitchen window of a small cottage. A twisting flagstone path separates it from the herbs. Beyond the path, there are flowers - bluebells, poppies, and peonies finding their way to sunlight amidst a tangle of ferns and soft moss. After bullying the onions, he examines the vines of a cucumber plant, chooses a few cucumbers, then moves on to the herbs to snap off a few stalks of dill. Spring is just beginning to entertain thoughts of giving in to summer and the sun pours down through a clear and cloudless sky. The weather seems to know better than to be overcast in this particular part of England on this particular day.

There is also an orange tree in this garden, nestled close to the cottage. Aziraphale follows Crowley outside today, taking advantage of the beautiful weather. Currently, he lounges on his side under the fruit tree, a book spread in the grass in front of him. Every so often, when he thinks Crowley isn’t paying attention (Crowley is always paying attention), Aziraphale looks up to watch him with a far-off smile resting on his lips. 

The tree was the first addition they made to their garden after moving to the South Downs. Crowley planted the sapling and immediately established his dominance over it with weeks of glowers, threats, and lectures. Aziraphale would follow this up by slipping outside in the early morning hours while Crowley still slept to hum encouragement and compliments into its boughs. Confused but apparently happy enough with this arrangement, the sapling took root beautifully, completely unaware that orange trees absolutely do not flourish in the cool grey of the South Downs. In the years since, it has grown into a large and healthy tree, the only one of its kind for miles. 

As for the rest of the garden, Crowley filled in the space with plants that were more natural to the region and let them, for the most part, grow wild. It’s a controlled sort of chaos that reigns here. He allows the ivy to twine around the rosemary and the oak tree, but bullies it back ruthlessly if it ever dares to impede on the herb patch. 

Crowley peers across the garden at Aziraphale, hoping to catch his eye, but finds him fully absorbed in his book. He meanders along the path towards the kitchen window, kicking a pebble noisily as he goes. He clears his throat and puts an extra swing into his hips, but Aziraphale doesn’t look up as he approaches.

Crowley smiles to himself. _ Ah. This game then. _

He reaches through the open window and sets the bundle of vegetables on the counter inside, then slinks over to the orange tree. With all the feigned nonchalance he can muster, he ducks under the bough of the tree and loops an arm around the trunk.

“What’cha reading, angel?” he asks, pitching his voice low and soft. 

Aziraphale ignores him and turns a page.

Crowley sighs and spins his lazy maypole circle around the tree. “Must be an _ amazing _ book. Your missing out on some breathtaking scenery.”

The angel’s poker face is unflappable. Crowley releases his tether on the tree and circles around so he’s in front on Aziraphale, then flops on the ground. There’s still no response. _ He is getting far too good at this. _

Crowley plucks his sunglasses off his face and tosses them unceremoniously into the grass, then starts to inch his way towards Aziraphale. “Getting the whole day’s reading in now, huh? I suppose that’s smart.” He flops onto his back. “Gonna be a late night.”

Aziraphale turns another page.

Tutting in exasperation, Crowley wriggles the rest of the way through the grass, closing the remaining space between them. He sets his head in the middle of the open book and stares up at Aziraphale owlishly. 

“That’s cheating, dear,” Aziraphale says, bending down to kiss the tip of his nose.

“Didn’t realize there were rules. Seriously though, what the heaven are you reading that is so much more interesting than _ this _?” Crowley asks, dramatically gesturing down the length of his body.

“Oh, nothing you’d like,” Aziraphale laughs. He knows this is untrue. They both do. This is part of the game.

“Try me. I have hidden depths.”

A mischievous smile flickers across Aziraphale’s face. “Mmm. Indeed. Alright then,” he clears his throat and begins to recite, apparently from memory since Crowley’s head is still lying on the book.

“_To me every hour of light and dark is a miracle, every cubic inch of space is a miracle, every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, every foot of the interior swarms with the same. _”

Crowley closes his eyes as Aziraphale speaks, breathing in the smell of oranges and sea salt, letting the calming song of the angel’s voice fill him. He wonders how long Aziraphale had this poem waiting in the wings for this moment. He wonders if this passage is even from the book under his head. Both thoughts work their way into him and twine pleasantly around his heart. The answers to these questions aren’t anything he particularly cares about. Some questions are just about the joy of asking.

“_T__o me the sea is a continual miracle, the fishes that swim - the rocks - the motion of the waves - the ships with men in them, what stranger miracles are there? _”

Crowley thinks of strange and mundane miracles as he feels Aziraphale lay his head in the grass next to him. Sunlight hitting the leaves above them and unravelling into dappled patterns on their bodies. A subtle breeze twirling its fingers through his hair. This garden, this cottage, this angel. The fact that this _ exists _. Continual miracles.

The crocuses have already come and gone for the year, but when they do show their faces, it is in a seep of color expanding outward from the base of the massive oak at the other end of the garden. Crowley considers this tree to be the miracle that started it all; the focal point that everything was drawn toward, absorbed into, then released back into the world in a new form. The world taking a breath, then letting it out as a sigh. The oak has become something of a haunt for Crowley in the way that the orange tree has for Aziraphale. On clear nights, he’ll wander outside and sit beneath it, leaning back into its trunk to gaze up at the sky until Aziraphale eventually joins him. 

They’ll talk of stars then, Crowley describing the inner workings of nebulae and his favorite colors visible only to inhuman eyes. Or they’ll talk of the sea, Aziraphale weaving poetry about the alien life and beauty that lies undiscovered in the depths. Sometimes, they will reminisce and laugh and joke, pulling memories from their long and storied pasts to reevaluate fondly. 

And sometimes, they won’t talk at all. Not with words anyway. 

Their hands and mouths and bodies never tire of each other, and the exhilaration of loving each other openly and freely has only grown. They’ll dance around each other with the small games and rituals they’ve created, until one of them finally gives in and reaches for the other. Crowley might lace a hand into Aziraphale’s hair and pull him in for a kiss, before travelling down the path of his neck. Or Aziraphale may be the one to break first, flowing toward Crowley and pinning him against the tree with little more than a smile and a sigh. Either way, they will end up falling into each other and landing on the ground that is always exactly as soft as they expect it to be. Which is to say, much softer than it should be.

**London, 2021**

Morning sun streams through the window, making little motes of dust flicker like stars as they drift through the air of the room. The flat above the bookshop has a deeply soothing draw to it, and Crowley finds himself spending fewer and fewer nights in his own flat. Similarly, Aziraphale opens his shop to customers less and less. Without Heaven or Hell to answer to, they lie sprawled in bed, enjoying the lazy morning and soaking in the sunlight and the silence as though they could sustain themselves on this and nothing else. Crowley floats comfortably close to sleep, his head resting on Aziraphale’s chest. One of the angel’s hands traces slow circles on his back, the other holds a book in front of him. The position has quickly become something of a regular landing for the two of them. After six thousand years of tension, dancing around each other and their feelings, and trying to stay out of the direct gaze of their head offices, falling into this kind of _ peace _has enchanted both of them.

With a soft sigh, Aziraphale closes the book and sets it on the bedside table. “Crowley?” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever… think about the seasons? Our seasons I mean.”

Crowley feels himself pulled gently back down to Earth, Aziraphale reeling him in from sleep like a kite from the breeze. The memory of travelling their seasons is always at the forefront of his mind. The aftereffects resonate through all his movements and actions to this day, the stars and gold in their eyes a constant reminder. 

“‘Course I do, angel. Throwing our souls into a blender together isn’t something I’m bound to forget anytime soon.”

Aziraphale chuckles. “No, I suppose not.” 

“Why do you ask? Everything okay?” Crowley opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at him. 

“Oh, everything is fine. More than fine. I just think quite a bit about… well, that garden. The one by the sea. With the cottage and the oak tree?”

“I remember,” Crowley says slowly. He suddenly feels very awake.

“And I’ve been thinking that maybe… maybe it’s time to move on from London. There’s no real _ need _for us to be stationed in a hub of humanity anymore. Our flats are lovely, of course, and I doubt I could ever tire of this, but what if we carved out a place of our own? Someplace new. Together.”

Crowley shifts onto his side and props on an elbow to better stare at Aziraphale. He’s still getting used to the blissful calm that’s settled on them after the world didn’t end. Sometimes it seems too surreal to take in; a fragile and ephemeral thing, shimmering around them like a soap bubble that will pop if he tries to reach out and touch it. He’s learning to be comfortable with it though. It’s been some time since his mind dwelled on _ we could go off together _ because he’s found that _ let’s stay right here, together _is a different kind of perfect.

He certainly never expected Aziraphale to ask it of him. The angel is a creature of habit and Crowley knows how much he loves London and the bookshop. His roots here are deep.

Crowley has also never mentioned his drives to Aziraphale before.

Without Hell beating down Crowley’s door, he’s found himself with quite a lot of free time on his hands. Demonic mischief only stays entertaining for so long, and not being contractually obligated to cause turmoil on Earth anymore, he’s taken to aimlessly driving the countryside. At times when Aziraphale gets especially absorbed in his tomes, Crowley will disappear from London for days at a time. Lately, he’s been haunting the southern coast, speeding along the highways and country lanes during the day. If he finds himself still out after the sun sets, he’ll find a quiet place to park, then settle onto the hood of the Bentley, leaning back against the windshield to stare up at the stars or out across the dark stretch of ocean.

The sight of the chalk hills and the smell of the sea draw a very particular emotion out of him and he knows, deep down, that he’s searching. What exactly he’s searching _ for _isn’t entirely clear to him - a garden, a cottage, the perfect seaside village, a picnic destination - but he likes to think he’ll know it when he sees it.

“So what you’re saying,” Crowley says, maintaining unwavering eye contact with Aziraphale. “Is that you’d like to go off together.”

Aziraphale blushes a bit at this, picking up on Crowley’s reference, but he doesn’t look away. The sunlight catches the flecks of gold in his irises, adding a glint to the determination in his eyes. His voice is soft but clear when he speaks. “Yes, my dear, that is what I’m saying. I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”

“Aw, hey. Don’t apologize. It was complicated, I know it was. Heaven’s a bunch of arseholes,” Aziraphale grimaces at this by muscle memory but doesn’t interrupt. “You were right to be careful, is all I mean.”

“All the same. Thank you for waiting so long.”

“Angel, I would have waited another six thousand years if that’s what you needed.” He settles back down next to Aziraphale against the pillows, draping an arm across his chest. “I might have discorporated from frustration a few dozen times, but I would have waited.”

Aziraphale swallows a huff of laughter and Crowley can practically _ hear _him roll his eyes.

“The answer is yes,” Crowley says into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I would love to run away together.”

***

When they finally make it out of the bed, Aziraphale dives headlong into his shelves. Now that the idea of leaving the bookshop behind is a potential reality for him, he seems at once terrified and thrilled. He bustles about restlessly, sorting books into far more categories than any reasonable person would need, trying to figure out what to keep, sell, store, donate, find an appropriately saint-like human to gift to, or cleverly hide in an ancient ruin for humanity to discover because “surely they’re ready now.” Crowley hovers for a while, watching Aziraphale paw through the tomes, but when he starts muttering about _ scrolls _ and _ etchings _, Crowley knows he’s lost to the world for the next several days at least.

Which is how he ends up in the Bentley speeding aimlessly along a coastal highway, hypnotized by the rush of pavement and lost in thought. It’s when the white chalk hills of the South Downs roll into view that the Bentley pipes up. The radio flickers on and a dramatic piano beat carries Freddie Mercury into Crowley’s ears. 

_ “And you’re rushing headlong, you’ve got a new goal. And you’re rushing headlong, out of control.” _

Crowley arches an eyebrow at the dash. “Subtle, darling,” he mutters. 

There’s a moment of static from the radio and the dial shifts, slipping into the cadence of a new song. “_Just a new man, yes you made me live again.” _

He scoffs at this. “Oh please. You like him too. I know you do. You could never hide something like that from me.”

More static as the song morphs again, the harsh edges of _Now I’m Here _ softening into a croon. “_I__n these days of cool reflection, you come to me and everything seems alright. In these days of cold affections, you sit by me and everything’s fine.” _

“Oh, _ I’m _ soft? Come off it, you’re the one spewing _ Heaven For Everyone _ at me,” he says, rolling his eyes.

The Bentley continues its rendition of the song in lieu of a response, and Crowley presses the accelerator to the floor, hugging the highway’s curves. He very pointedly does not smile at _ “just your smile could smooth my ride,” _but it takes faking a cough, forcing a frown, and diverting his eyes out the driver’s side window. The Bentley lowers the volume a little, but continues playing the song. Crowley knows the car well enough to recognize that it’s satisfied with itself. 

_ What am I looking for anyway? A fairy tale cottage with a bloody “for sale” sign? What do I expect to find out here? _He sighs as the song draws out its final notes. The radio falls silent.

“Finished then? You know, I don’t think Aziraphale believes me when I tell him about your fits.”

The sun peeks out from between the clouds, spilling light over the green and white hills, the steely blue sea, the endless stretch of sky. _ This is the place, isn’t it? Why the heaven did we end up here? _ He rounds a bend and a sparse cluster of trees comes into view. The Bentley decides it’s time to slow down, and Crowley watches the needle on the speedometer drop in spite of his foot on the pedal. 

“Oh, what now you moody wench?”

The radio flickers to life again with a rhythmic snapping of fingers. _ “One dream, one soul, one prize, one goal. One golden glance of what should be. It’s a kind of magic.” _

“You must realize it makes me sound completely bat shit that you never do this when he’s in the car.”

The Bentley slows its pace a little more, the speedometer creeping down to until they’re almost going the speed limit. The volume knob turns, and Freddie’s voice grows loud and insistent. _ “One shaft of light that shows the way. No mortal man can win this day. It’s a kind of magic.” _

Crowley pauses with his mouth open, his argument with the car sticking in his throat as the lyrics start to sink in. His eyes follow the rays of the sun as it filters down through the clouds to land picturesque in the copse of trees nestled against the hills. The radio continues to pull its lilting song through his head (_The bell that rings inside your mind is challenging the doors of time.” _) and he suddenly finds himself wondering just how much of this is the car. Satan had been able to pour his will through the speakers in the past, so it would follow that there was nothing stopping Her from reaching through. After all, he’s never known the Bentley to extend its will beyond the frame of the car, and there’s no denying that the shaft of sunlight piercing through the clouds like something out of an impressionist painting eerily matches the words of the song.

But surely… Surely not. He doesn’t linger on this. He can’t. The idea that his car is a quasi sentient, fully mercurial creature with a massive chip on its shoulder is easier to accept than the thought of God deciding to take an interest after everything She’s put him through. Arguing with the Bentley is simple. In a way, it’s almost calming. Sometimes it’s even fun. The thought of tripping and falling into the next version of the Ineffable Plan is none of those things, and it’s easier to resent Her than accept the idea that She’s trying to help. That’s a step he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to take. Aziraphale would probably disapprove. Maybe he’s right to. 

_ “Is this a kind of magic? (It’s a kind of magic). There can be only one. This rage that lasts a thousand years will soon be done.” _

The car pulls off to the shoulder of the road, easing itself to a halt. Crowley turns the key, fumbles with the wheel, presses the accelerator, even tries miracling the engine back to life, but the Bentley remains stubbornly motionless. He throws up his hands in exasperation. “Seriously?”

_ “This flame that burns inside of me. I’m hearing secret harmonies. It’s a kind of magic.” _

“Fine. _ Fine. _ You win,” Crowley says with a groan, and climbs out of the car. He spares a glance up at the clouds, but doesn’t bother letting any questions out. Not heavenward anyway. That door slammed shut millennia ago and he has long since burned that bridge in his mind. Everything he’s ever bothered to care about - home, peace of mind, _ love _ (Aziraphale, Aziraphale, _ Aziraphale_) - is here. On Earth. This place he chose and fought for. The person who wants him for all the things he is _ and _ isn’t.

He jams his fists into his pockets and stalks towards the treeline, muttering an annoyed curse at his temperamental car as he goes. The Bentley seems to shout after him, _ “Magic, magic, magic…” _

He occasionally gets out of the car and hikes around on his trips to the South Downs, if only to take in the salt air and give his mind space to stretch. These strolls have never been about any destination. It’s more of a meditative act. A change in scenery in the hope of finding whatever clarity it is that he’s looking for. He makes his way towards the trees that seem like the obvious destination given his circumstances, secretly thankful that he can get away with blaming this on his car instead of a deity.

He is considering abandoning the quest as a fool’s errand and returning to the Bentley to give it a piece of his mind, when he smells rosemary wafting on the breeze. A nostalgic smell memory takes hold of him, hanging just out of his reach like a dream that he can’t quite remember. The Bentley suddenly forgotten, he picks his way up the slope through dandelions and wild clover. Sparse trees and shrubs close in around him, the sunlight creating shifting shadows on the ground. 

Crowley will never be able to stop asking questions, but he has lived long enough to know where to direct them. Not Hell, _ never _Heaven, sometimes Aziraphale, but most often, this means swallowing them. Keeping them hidden in the dark. A seed buried deep in the Earth, protected and nurtured in the hope that it will take root and reach for the light, breaking the surface as an answer.

At the edge of a clearing in the trees, Crowley finds an answer. There are thistles and scrubby grass and a multitude of weeds here, but there is also rosemary and ivy growing near the base of an oak tree. He stops. Stares. Gingerly picks his way through the field. With a shaky breath, he presses a palm against the trunk of the tree and feels the memory of a dream solidify inside of him. He knows this place. He recognizes it with all the unequivocal certainty that a dreamer uses to justify an unlikely reality.

Somehow, _ impossibly_, he has found the tree that he and Aziraphale visited in the ether.

**The South Downs, 2032**

They trail each other about the kitchen, orbiting in slow and subtle ways. Aziraphale has long since established a touch-heavy love language, and reaches out for Crowley whenever they come close; a brush of his fingers, a gentle squeeze on an arm or the waist, a kiss in passing. Crowley soaks it in like a snake on a hot rock, and figures he will continue to do so until the six thousand year backlog of repressed touches has been fulfilled.

Crowley chops cucumbers and dill, sips coffee, pretends to get annoyed when Aziraphale sneaks morsels from the cutting board. Aziraphale makes iced tea, packs sandwiches and fruit into a basket, leans on the counter to watch Crowley.

“Which one are we naming tonight?” Aziraphale asks.

“Did we make it through Aquarius last year?”

“We did. There were only two stars left at the end, and you insisted on doing them both rather than leaving one unnamed for a whole year.”

“Oh, right,” Crowley says, the memory surfacing. “Benedick and Beatrice. Dunno how I forgot.” He carefully cuts the crust off the cucumber tea sandwich he’s just assembled.

“Mmm. Something about how you wanted to ‘balance the scales’ after I chose Ophelia,” Aziraphale says, reaching across the counter and grabbing a scrap of crust.

“Only makes sense, angel.”

“Well, my dear, you’re the astronomy expert here. What are our options?” Aziraphale asks. He uses the bread to scoop up some cream cheese and pops it into his mouth.

For the past ten years, this has been something of a tradition for them. The first year in the cottage, Crowley had been sitting out in the garden late at night, staring at the night sky from his spot by the oak. He’d seen the first shooting star, immediately realized what it was, and ran to the cottage to drag Aziraphale outside with him

They’d laid out in the grass and squinted into the darkness, watching the Eta Aquariids meteor shower pass through the sky. Aziraphale gave an overjoyed exclamation every time a meteor streaked across the horizon, each one seeming to delight him as much as each that came before it. Crowley had told him all about the comet the meteors spawned from (_“‘Comet’ may sound impressive, but it’s really more of a tiny rubble pile. Held together by pure stubbornness, that one. Only looks majestic from a distance.” _ ) and gone on about sublimation and fluorescence. Aziraphale was a rapt audience, ooh-ing and ahh-ing and saying that the comet sounded like a perfectly _ lovely _fellow. 

The next night they’d gone to the garden prepared with a picnic and sat under the stars all night. It was then that they’d started renaming the constellations. Crowley had admitted that he couldn’t remember the names of any of the stars he’d hung, and lamented that so many of the names humans gave them were beyond dull (_“‘86 Aquarii,’ honestly. That’s alphabet soup, not a name for a binary star” _ ). Aziraphale had responded quite matter-of-factly that the obvious answer was to simply give all the stars new names then. It’s not like Heaven or Hell could tell them they _ couldn’t _, and who on Earth would really be around as long as them to appreciate it? Besides, they’d done it before. Yes, they had been ethereal stars in a strange dreamscape, but if anyone was qualified for such a task, it was them two of them.

And so they got to work. 

There is a week in spring when the Eta Aquariids burn brightest. During this week, one angel and one demon can be found sitting in their garden at night, giving the stars new names. They limit their naming to one or two stars a night, working under the mindset that there is no need to rush. For once, they are enjoying going slow. They intend to make the night sky last.

“Right. So. I was thinking that while we’re here,” Crowley says, gesturing around the kitchen with a butter knife. “And I mean _ here _here - not just the cottage, but by the ocean, on Earth - because who knows where we’ll be in a century or two.” He accentuates this enormous metaphysical concept with a slightly larger sweep of the cream cheese-laden butter knife. “While we’re here, it seems fitting that we stick to naming the water constellations. The astronomical sea.”

“Very poetic,” Aziraphale says, doing his best to conceal a smile. He tilts his head to one side and reaches out to rub Crowley’s cheek as though he were scrubbing at a spot of dirt. “Hmm, you’ve got something smudged on you.” He pulls back and examines his thumb, then lets the smile break the surface as he holds his hand up to show Crowley. “Ah. Yes, a bit of angel has rubbed off on you.”

Crowley groans and puts his entire body into the effort of rolling his eyes at this. “Oh my god. Aziraphale. No. There is nowhere in this _ galaxy _where that is funny.”

“The sea it is then,” Aziraphale says, laughing at the effect of his terrible joke on Crowley. _ You love it _ Aziraphale’s eyes seem to say. _ I really do _Crowley’s say in response. “Pisces?” Aziraphale asks.

“I was thinking Delphinus actually”

“The Dolphin?”

“Mm-hmm. Always liked dolphins.”

Aziraphale drop his eyes to the tea in his hands. “Great big brains, dolphins,” he muses quietly.

_ And another stepping stone on the bizarre path that led here_. Crowley thinks back to the drunken camaraderie on the night they agreed to become godfathers to the not-Antichrist, smiles to himself, and keeps this excessive bit of sentimentality inside. He’s still a demon, after all. In theory.

**The South Downs, 2021**

In the end, the plot of land containing the oak tree had been for sale, although both the land and several estate agents seemed very confused by this. Aziraphale had been hesitant to use divine intervention for this purpose, but once Crowley dragged him out to see the spot for himself, all his reservations on the matter dissolved.

“Angel. Look,” he says pointing as they enter the clearing. Crowley had suggested a picnic, knowing that Aziraphale would never be able to resist it, and he now carries a basket in the crook of his arm. “This is it. The tree. _ The _tree. Don’t ask me how, but it’s exactly the same.”

Aziraphale freezes, staring at the tree in bewilderment. “But… It… It’s _ real? _”

“Apparently. Maybe one of us had seen it before? Even just a photo of it. Had it tucked away in our memory banks and pulled it up that night,” Crowley says. He has spent much of the past week listing all the ordinary, earthly reasons this place could exist outside of the ether and has almost convinced himself of a few of them. “All I know is we’ve been here. This place feels as _ ours _as any place on Earth ever could. Go sit. You’ll see what I mean.”

At the tree, Aziraphale walks a few slow circles around it. He reaches out a trembling hand and presses his palm against the trunk, then shakes his head and laughs incredulously. Crowley sees him glance up at the sky and mutter something, but decides to ignore this, busying himself with the picnic blanket instead. He flops on the blanket under the tree and Aziraphale joins him, sitting cross-legged and turning his wide eyes to Crowley.

“Crowley, this… This is _ miraculous_.” 

Crowley understands the huge feeling pulling at Aziraphale’s heart, but simply gives a small nod in response. He hadn’t considered until this moment the possibility that he might not be able to convince Aziraphale. That Aziraphale might still reject the idea of obtaining the property by miracles and trickery. The thought weighs on him very suddenly and he does his best to play the part of the casual serpent. 

“Told you, didn’t I?” He pulls a bottle of wine out of the picnic basket, pouring for both of them. He takes off his sunglasses and sets them aside, holding Aziraphale’s gaze very soberly with his own. “Look, you said you wanted to carve out a place of our own. Someplace out of the city. Call me presumptuous, but this is that place. It even _ smells _right. The rosemary? The ocean? We’re not going to do better than this.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale begins, staring thoughtfully into his wine. He takes a deep breath before starting again. “I suppose it’s not like this land is being used for anything _ else _ right now. And we’d be able to build on it,” he looks up at Crowley, excitement starting to edge into his eyes. “Oh, Crowley, we could build the cottage! The one that was there! We could make it exactly how we want it to be! We could make the garden from that night-”

“Primrose and bluebells, if memory serves,” Crowley interrupts with a wide smile. Relief seeps through him, seeing that this temptation is accomplished before it had ever had a chance to begin.

“An open floor plan. Perhaps a loft bedroom? With floor-to-ceiling windows to let the light in.”

“We could have the walls lined with bookshelves,” Crowley says, leaning into the angel’s excited daydream. “Every room, covered in shelves. And one of those wheely library ladders to go with.”

“Ohh, we could design our own kitchen,” Aziraphale chirps, one hand flying out to grab Crowley’s wrist.

“Our own wine cellar. A proper one.”

“We could have planters built right into the walls. One at every window. Crowley, you could have an outdoor _ and _an indoor garden.” 

“Reading nooks in every room. Anywhere a sunbeam ever dares to land? Reading nook.”

“And the sea is in walking distance!” Aziraphale hasn’t had nearly as long to turn all this over in his mind as Crowley has, and looks like he might discorporate from bliss.

“So, you’re on board then?” Crowley asks, extending his glass into the space between them.

“My dear, _ yes_,” Aziraphale breathes, clinking their glasses together.

**The South Downs, 2032**

They sit cross-legged on the picnic blanket, leaning against each other at the shoulder as stars appear in the night sky. Aziraphale munches a cucumber sandwich and Crowley peels an orange.

When Benedick and Beatrice appear, Aziraphale says softly, “Too wise to woo peaceably indeed.”

Crowley laughs at this. “They figured it out in the end. Oh, there are our mighty warriors,” he says around a mouthful of fruit, pointing at the four stars that make up the water-bearer’s jar. The first year of their naming tradition, they’d christened these stars Adam, Pepper, Brian, and Wensleydale.

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. “They’re _ children_.” 

“They also defeated the horsepersons of the apocalypse, so as far as I’m concerned they’re warriors. Bloody legends, those kids. Also, I’m pretty sure they’re grown now, angel. Humans do that, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve always said it was very inconsiderate of them.”

They greet ten years worth of stars like this, eating oranges and remembering humans that have passed through their lives. Crowley had insisted on adding Warlock to the water-bearer and Aziraphale had agreed, on the condition that Anathema and Agnes were present as well. They both agreed it would have been an oversight to leave out Newt, Tracy, and Shadwell, so into Aquarius they went. Next came William and Anne, the rest of the constellation being filled in by their favorite characters from Shakespeare’s plays.

“Delphinus then?” Aziraphale says.

“Got any names in mind?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale responds slowly. “I was thinking it would be nice to have Mary in the sky.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “As in Magdalene?”

“Oh dear, it’s quite a common name, isn’t it. I was thinking Oliver, actually.”

“And _ I’m _the poetic one?” Crowley says with a laugh. “Why not the full name? Then we can get both of them up there.”

“Oh, yes that’s very sensible. Marys Oliver and Magdalene tonight?” Aziraphale asks.

“Nope, if you get Mary Oliver, then I get Freddie.”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue in annoyance. “But you love her, I _ know _you do.”

“Not the point, angel,” Crowley says with a grin. “One for each of us. You can have Mary Magdalene tomorrow night. Besides, you like Freddie. I know you do. You could never hide something like that from me.” 

“Oh fine. Fair’s fair I suppose.” The fact that Aziraphale doesn’t deny liking Freddie Mercury is not lost on Crowley.

Crowley insists on _ 18 Delphini _ for Freddie and Aziraphale accepts his suggestion of _ Gamma Delphini _ for Mary (_"__It’s a binary star. Trust me, she’d like it."_), and when they’re done they lie back on the blanket to admire the sky.

“Well then. Mary Oliver and Freddie Mercury, welcome to the sky.” Aziraphale says happily.

***

The meteors don’t appear until the hours just before dawn, after the moon has set and the sky is at its darkest. The Eta Aquariids are by no means the most impressive meteor shower to grace the sky above Earth, especially not viewed from their position on the globe, but Crowley has never been bothered by this. If anything, he appreciates them all the more for their subtlety. Observing them requires seeking out the proper conditions - a lack of light pollution and clouds, straining your eyes, and having a deep well of patience. Sometimes, they can’t be seen at all. In a way, he likes those years best. There is something inexplicably comforting in the knowledge that the lights in the sky always burn, even when he can’t see them.

When the first shooting star streaks across the horizon, Aziraphale gives his characteristic gasp. He never seems to tire of this, and treats the appearance of each shooting star as though it were the first. Each meteor, a tiny miracle. Crowley never tires of Aziraphale’s delight.

“Will you tell me about where they come from?” Aziraphale asks as they wait for the next meteor to paint its fleeting brushstroke across the sky. He’s heard this story before. He already knows all the details. He doesn’t ask because he wants to hear the story, but rather because he wants to hear Crowley tell it. This is another one of their small games. _ Tell me a story? I don’t care what it is, as long as you’re the one doing the telling. _

“Yeah, angel. Always.”

And so Crowley tells him about a rubble pile of a comet, daring to speed around the sun in a retrograde orbit. (_"__Only a matter of time until it shoots itself straight out of the solar system. Can’t believe it hasn’t already.")_

He tells him about how the comet doesn’t reflect light, like the moon does. It doesn’t quite create its own either. (_The damned thing flies so close to the sun that it starts to burn up. Creates its own atmosphere. That’s the part you can see from Earth. It absorbs and then fluoresces the sun’s light back as something new."_)

When the next meteor streaks faintly across the sky, Crowley tells Aziraphale about how it’s a piece of comet debris, probably hundreds of years old. (_“It’s sort of like...shed skin? No, sorry, that’s gross. It’s just comet bits, angel. That’s all shooting stars really are. The comet shakes off debris as it flies and the Earth keeps dropping in on them on its lap around the sun.” _)

Aziraphale sighs dreamily, taking in Crowley’s from-the-hip rambling as if it was the most eloquent poetry imaginable.

**The South Downs, 2022**

Construction of the cottage went remarkably fast. Faster than any job in the construction company’s history in fact. If one were to ask the baffled foreman about the project, he might have mentioned that somehow, miraculously, the job went down without a single mistake or setback, in spite of the odd clients who insisted on hovering around the job site. If one were to press the foreman further about the Crowley/Fell contract, he might mention that the redhead was crass and grumpy, but strangely, only when he thought people were watching. Or he might bring up how the charming blonde one always brought the workers tea and sandwiches. If one were to take the foreman out for a few pints, he might even confess that shaking Mr. Fell’s hand when he handed over the keys had filled his entire being with such a soothing sense of tranquility, and he had gone on to have the best week of his entire life. 

But this isn’t a story about the foreman.

A few months after Aziraphale and Crowley move into the cottage, a rainstorm crashes its way up the coast. Crowley pulls on one of Aziraphale’s bulky cardigans to ward off the chill and is shuffling through the kitchen to shut the window when the patchwork of aromas hits him. The smell of petrichor floats in through the window, bringing a wave of smell memory crashing into him. He freezes in the middle of the kitchen, momentarily struck dumb. 

Petrichor and sea salt on the breeze, rosemary and orange blossoms drifting in from the garden, book dust and bergamot lingering in the wool on his shoulders.

The déjà vu grabs him, holds him in an unsettling and nostalgic limbo momentarily, then drags him back in time three years to his flat in London. Back to that moment when he had fallen into Aziraphale’s embrace, seconds before they had kissed for the first time. A moment drenched in potentiality, just before the entire course of his life had changed completely.

Aziraphale had just finished working several dozen miracles on Crowley’s plants, transforming the harsh angles of the room into a lush garden. He had smelled all of this on the angel then. Only briefly, and not again since returning from the ether, but thinking back on it, he wonders just how much had been hidden in that moment. He’d never stopped to wonder about that cacophony of smells that had been radiating off of Aziraphale. His mind had simply chalked it up to some heavenly nonsense like _ miracle residue _ , or even just _ being an angel_. Reevaluating the memory now, he can’t help inserting words like _ potentiality _ and _ divine intervention_.

He stands in the kitchen of the cottage they built together and stares into space, wondering about how things might have been different. What if he had never kissed Aziraphale? What if their plan had gone awry and he never made it out of Heaven? What if he had taken the risk only to discover that Aziraphale simply… hadn’t loved him?

His stomach turns at this thought, and he feels a surge of unnamed emotions well up in him. The kitchen suddenly feels too stuffy. Too bright. He lets his feet carry him to the door and out into the wet grey of the garden. Rain pelts his face as he turns to look at the sky, letting the damp chill calm the blood that had suddenly rushed to the surface. With a deep breath, he wanders over to the oak tree. The ground around it is growing damp, but he ignores this, sinking to sit beneath the tree. Drawing the cardigan around him closely, he leans back against the trunk and stares out towards the sea.

_ We rested here that night, didn’t we? Two souls, as one? It could have gone so different. _

Melancholy answers to no one, not even immortal beings who carry stars in their eyes. Crowley feels it settle its bulk onto his shoulders as he sits there. There’s no logic to it. No reason for this cold dampness in his soul, but it seeps into him anyway. It feels like heartbreak as it wraps its gauzy tendrils around him. 

_ Was this all part of Her plan then? The smells and the tree and that nonsense with the Bentley? The whole free will thing was just an illusion? Doesn’t seem fair really. Why would She even care? Would it have happened without some divine faffing about? _ He closes his eyes and rests his head against the tree, focusing on the white noise of rain and the far-off sea in the hope it will drown out the roar of questions suddenly tearing through him. _ Another point for ineffability_, he thinks glumly. 

His mind is beginning to wander in the direction of his ether when he hears the door to the cottage open. Wet footsteps pick their way along the garden path to him. Slipping one eye open, he sees Aziraphale through the grey dusk, walking towards him with an umbrella tucked under his arm.

“You’re getting soaked, my dear,” he says gently, easing the umbrella open and lowering himself to sit next to Crowley under the tree. “Any reason you’re sitting in the garden in a rainstorm, or are you just enjoying the weather?” He scoots close enough to hold the umbrella over both of them, slipping an arm behind Crowley and letting him lean into the created space. 

“Just thinking,” Crowley mumbles.

“Should I dry the ground under us, or is this part of the thought process?” Aziraphale asks, glancing down at the rainwater beginning to pool around them in murky puddles.

“Nah, leave it. No miracles. I think I’m having an ‘of earth’ moment.”

Aziraphale chuckles, then leans over to press his lips to the top of Crowley’s head. “A bit like old times, isn’t it? Though I suppose an umbrella isn’t quite as impressive or romantic as shielding you with my own wings.” When Crowley remains silent, he says, “I could get them out if you like.”

Crowley releases a tiny snort of laughter in spite of his mood. “S’alright, angel. Keep the wings in the ether. They’ll get soaked and I’ve seen how good you are about keeping them groomed.” That earns him a pinch on the ribs. He wraps the cardigan around him a little tighter and leans in closer to Aziraphale. “Do you ever wonder…” he trails off, unable to find the proper words to put to the grey threads tightening around his heart. What can he say? _ If we really have free will? If we’re just Her puppets? If you only love me because She wants you to? _

“I wonder at many things,” Aziraphales says matter-of-factly into Crowley’s hair. “I think ‘constant state of wonder’ is rather part of an angel’s job description.” He pauses, seeming to wait for Crowley to continue. When the only sound is the static of the rain and the sea, he lifts his head and rests his chin on top of Crowley’s head, letting his voice take on a timbre that sounds almost melodious. 

“I find a great deal of wonder in this garden. That you managed to find our tree. I never would have thought it could exist here in the physical world, yet here we are. I think this home we’ve built together is more than wonderful. That I can share this moment with you, in the open and under the sky without fear is something more wonderful than I would have ever dared to hope for. An angel and a demon breaking their bonds and living free? Happy and loved? That seems to me like the very definition of wonder.” 

Aziraphale’s voice grows thick with emotion as he speaks and Crowley feels the substance of his words soak into him, loosening the tendrils in his chest. The rain patters on the umbrella above them, falling in intermittent bursts as water gathers and drips through the leaves of the oak. Crowley leans his face into to Aziraphale’s chest and breathes deep. Wonderfully mundane things fill his lungs. A hint of cedar from the wardrobe and soap from the laundry, but underneath it, the whisper of orange blossom always peeks through. That quiet ethereal poetry that seems to exist for Crowley alone.

“Every time I look in a mirror and see the gold in my eyes,” Aziraphale continues, his voice beginning to crack. “Or look at you and see the stars. I feel so full of wonder that I can’t imagine how one being could ever contain it.” Crowley pulls back enough to look at Aziraphale. There are tears glittering in his eyes.

“Oh. Angel, no. Oh, love, don’t cry.”

It pours out of Crowley naturally. _ Love_. He’s said it before, in the ether, and again to a quiet room while Aziraphale slept. It’s not a word that comes easily because it’s never felt like _ enough_. It feels impossible that one word could ever contain all the depth and the nuance he needs it to hold. The messiness, the joy, the devotion, the feeling of _ home_. It would take books, surely. Epics. Entire libraries. Not this one word that billions of people throw around so easily and often.

Or maybe it’s just this. Sitting outside in a rainstorm with the person who knows you best. Realizing that it’s not the rain that’s important. It’s not the garden or the cottage or the beautiful countryside. It’s not about where either of you came from or what brought you together or where you might end up in a hundred years. In a moment of stunning clarity, Crowley looks at Aziraphale and stops caring about having all the answers. _ Ineffability be damned. _

“Aziraphale, I love you. You know that, right? I know I don’t say it enough, but… you know, right?” 

Aziraphale bites his lip against a shaky breath. A smile lights his face. “You say it the perfect amount. Of course I know.”

Crowley reaches a hand out to cup his face and moves in to kiss him, letting his lips trail across Aziraphale's cheek, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, until he finds his way to his mouth. “Right then,” Crowley murmurs against him. “Good.” 

He leans back into Aziraphale and they fall silent. The rain pelts the umbrella above them, and the ground beneath them has fully soaked through Crowley’s clothes. He considers miracling it dry, but that somehow feels like a betrayal of the moment. _ So are we “of Earth” now? Without Heaven or Hell, we finally belong to the middle with all its mess and muck and mundane miracles? _

“Have you been back to your ether?” Crowley asks, breaking the silence.

“I haven’t. Have you?”

“Nah. Haven’t really felt the need.” 

He wonders briefly what his ether might look like now. If it’s still the bookshop or if it’s morphed into something new. A bonfire by a frozen lake or the room in his flat they transformed into a garden. Perhaps it would just be a cottage with too many reading nooks and houseplants crowding the unreasonable number of bookshelves.

He considers all of this, and decides it doesn’t really matter. “Alright, I’m freezing. Let’s go inside,” he says.

**The South Downs, 2032**

They stay outside through the grey predawn light, turning their attention to the garden coming into focus now that the stars are no longer visible. When the sky begins to fill with orange light, Crowley sighs and stretches, repositioning himself so his head rests in Aziraphale’s lap.

“Another beautiful day,” he says, staring up at the angel with absolutely no subtlety. 

Aziraphale beams at him. _ “It seems you love this world very much.” _

Crowley blinks. _ Oh. _ ** _This _ ** _ game. Should have seen it coming. _ He knows his lines. _ “Yes. This beautiful world,” _he answers, falling into the dance with Aziraphale.

_ “And you don’t mind the mind that keeps you busy all the time with its dark and bright wonderings?” _

_ “No, I’m quite used to it. Busy, busy all the time,” _ Crowley grins. _ Stars help me, this will never get old. _

Aziraphale brushes a hand across Crowley’s forehead and into his hair. Speaking softly now, he asks, _ “And you don’t mind living with those questions, I mean the hard ones, that no one can answer?” _

Crowley takes a deep breath and replies truthfully, _ “Actually, they’re the most interesting.” _

_ “And you have a person in your life whose hand you like to hold?” _

The familiar tightness pinches in Crowley’s chest. An old love that has lodged itself inside him and grown, flourished, pushed its way out of dark soil to reach for the light. His hand finds Aziraphale’s and he laces their fingers together. _ “Yes. I do.” _

Aziraphale raises their entwined hands and presses his lips to Crowley’s knuckles as he speaks his final line. _ “It must surely, then, be very happy down there in your heart.” _

"_Yes,_” Crowley says. “_It is._”

**Author's Note:**

> [from you the flowers grow.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slpYZtTpXZw)
> 
> The poem Aziraphale recites to Crowley at the beginning is _Miracles, _ by Walt Whitman.  
The poem Aziraphale and Crowley recite together is _A Voice From I Don't Know Where, _ by Mary Oliver.
> 
> A great deal of inspiration for this story was taken from _Felicity, _ by Mary Oliver. Also by letting [A Kind Of Magic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0p_1QSUsbsM) by Queen play on repeat for days.
> 
> My knowledge of Halley's Comet is loose at best and I like to think Crowley was too busy making moons to have anything beyond my bullshitter's understanding of the thing. Please don't come for me, astronomy people. I am but a humble storyteller.
> 
> I hang out on [Tumblr](https://jessicafish.tumblr.com/) sometimes. Come say hi!


End file.
